


Take Your Time Coming Home

by Kaiosea



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Emotional Sex, Future Fic, Kissing, Los Angeles, M/M, Mostly Post-Canon, consensual drunk sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiosea/pseuds/Kaiosea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Shuuzou meets him, Himuro is impossibly beautiful. But that's only the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Your Time Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstone/gifts).



> This builds off their encounter in the nijihimu replace novel; if you haven't read it, this is pretty much all you need to know about Nijimura's thoughts on Himuro: _There is a saying that goes something like: “meeting a Buddha in hell (meaning that you’ll often find help in unexpected places).” But I never expected a ‘Buddha’ to look so beautiful. In this foreign land of Los Angeles, the guy that saved me when I was in a pinch was astonishingly beautiful._
> 
> for inkstone, happy smutswap! :)

The first time Shuuzou meets him, they’re under attack. 

Himuro is impossibly beautiful in motion, the delicate skin of his hands almost translucent under the harsh light of the warehouse. They’re not hands for punching, and yet the guy approaching them flies into the air when Himuro’s fist connects with his gut. A couple of the last thugs standing flash annoyance at each other before taking on Himuro together, so Shuuzou joins him at his side. He remembers how to fight, and they send off the last of their attackers with the help of Himuro’s basketball gang, when they arrive. 

“You act like you’re from around here,” Himuro says, afterwards. His chest rises and falls, the color darkened to a dusky rose from exertion. “It’s… interesting.” 

Shuuzou is fifteen, and he’s never been to Los Angeles before. Now, he’s supposed to call it home. He asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re from the country, but you have city instincts. I like that.” 

“I’m not from the country,” Shuuzou says, not understanding 

Himuro cocks his head. “Remind me where you’re from.” 

Shuuzou tells him, and Himuro laughs and says, “That’s country,” rolling his sleeves down. Shuuzou already misses his wrists. He decides he likes Himuro, even if he disagrees on the city thing. 

They exchange numbers so they can schedule regular pick-up games in the park, but Himuro isn’t around much longer. He’s bound for Japan; not the land he grew up in, but the place he’s going to. 

Shuuzou is stuck here, in the same situation. 

 

 

The second time they meet, they’re in transit. 

“I’m in the international terminal,” says Shuuzou, and Himuro asks, “Which gate?” 

He shows up with two cheap, parceled hamburgers not five minutes later, and tosses one over. Shuuzou catches it in one hand. 

“You’ve changed,” Himuro says, and Shuuzou doesn’t know whether he could truthfully repeat the same words back. That they're doomed to be simultaneously absent from each other’s destinations is a coincidence; that they’re meeting here today, is not.

Himuro is still impossibly beautiful. But the images Shuuzou had held of him in his mind are only the facsimiles of an art print. The original maintains its grace and delicacy far beyond a memory. 

Shuuzou is seventeen, and he hasn’t been back to Japan in two years. Now, he’s on his way for a visit. He switches to Japanese. “You don’t look like you’re dressed for monsoon season. I hear it’s pretty nasty right now.” 

“I dress for the weather I’m coming home to,” says Himuro, switching languages with him. He has on a thin T-shirt and black hemmed shorts, well suited for L.A. 

His bangs are falling into his eyes. Shuuzou looks at his neck, where the exposed skin is like cream. Shuuzou remembers how the color had deepened and flushed when Himuro was out of breath, at the warehouse, or on the court. They hadn’t played many games together, but enough for Shuuzou to remember. Especially when Himuro likes to send him snaps of himself post-game or post-workout, bangs matted flat against his forehead from sweat. 

Shuuzou returns them with snaps of himself post-shower. Hot ones and cold ones. 

They chat for enough time that Shuuzou has to run to his gate at the last minute, finding that it was changed while he was caught up in conversation. He looks back at Himuro before he passes out of sight, feeling his backpack flapping around his shoulders. 

He is almost sorry to be returning to Japan. He checks on his damn idiot friends, and some of his extended family. Everyone is doing well, thankfully, because he couldn't handle another crisis like his dad. And he doesn’t say a word about Himuro to anyone—not even Atsushi, who turned out to have fraternized with him quite a bit in Shuuzou’s absence. 

 

 

The third time they meet, they sleep together. 

Himuro meets him on campus, near Shuuzou’s dorm. He is impossibly more beautiful than the last time Shuuzou had seen him. His face is sharper, almost all remnants of baby fat gone. His beauty marks draw attention to the bones of his jaw. Shuuzou’s eyes catch around his mouth, petal-shaped. 

“How’s your jetlag?” Shuuzou asks, remembering the first time he’d arrived here and first wrapped his mind around the unfamiliar word. His English is still slow-going, but he’s had it easier than his parents. 

“It’s not too bad. I got in late last night and slept it off.” Himuro smiles, the mole at the side of his chin lifting. The space under his eyes is darker than the rest of his face, and has a purple tinge. 

It makes him look artistic. Shuuzou is jealous. 

Himuro suggests they check out a trendy club that opened downtown in the last month. How he knows about this despite being in L.A. for less than 24 hours and Shuuzou doesn’t, is just another mystery of the world. 

Shuuzou is nineteen, and he’ll be a year ahead of Himuro at UCLA this year. It had ultimately been Himuro’s decision to come back here for school, but Shuuzou knows he struggled with leaving people behind no matter where he went. “Aren’t you tired?” 

Himuro looks at him. More of a stare, really, that travels up and down Shuuzou’s body appraisingly, and it’s the first time that Shuuzou thinks, _Maybe,_ feeling the look ripple through his body like electricity. “Not anymore.” 

Thanks to one of Himuro’s ridiculous drinking games, they’re at a club within the hour, drunk within two, and dancing within three. 

Himuro is grinding against him slowly, and Shuuzou is dying just as slowly. The song is fast, but Himuro only has one dancing pace: torturous. 

“You know what I want?” Himuro asks, tipping his head back and to the side. They’re about the same height, so there’s no need for him to do that. Shuuzou could hear him just fine. 

“What?” He replies, gruffly. His hands were too shy to touch Himuro’s waist initially, but four Long Islands in and all his body parts have become bolder. Whether they’re audacious enough to carry through remains to be seen. 

“Snow cream,” Himuro says, and his tone is too suggestive to be an accident. The shine of his neck attracts the light, becoming a beacon itself. “I haven’t had that in ages.” 

Shuuzou mumbles an agreement against his neck, but Himuro seems loathe to untangle their limbs. After a few more songs, he manages to slide Himuro off his body, and they take care of their tabs. 

Himuro bumps someone on their way out and does an exaggerated, drunken bow. 

It’s clear that the guy he bumped into is too drunk. He yells at them, but the music is too loud to hear. Shuuzou isn’t sure he’s speaking English. There are definitely some words he doesn't understand thrown in. Himuro counters back 

The hair on his neck pricks. He feels that something is going to happen, and he moves towards Himuro quickly. Later, Himuro will chide him for this, saying he can take care of himself—and Shuuzou knows that, knows that Himuro is perfectly capable of anything, probably a better fighter overall—but in the moment, Shuuzou shoves him aside and takes the punch meant for him. He’s drunk, so it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. 

The man throws a mean punch, but Shuuzou reacts more quickly. He spins into an outstretched kick and flattens him to the ground when the guy’s caught off guard. It’s a simple matter. 

The bouncers throw them all out, despite a protestation from Himuro that manages to be elegant despite its slurred execution, ending with, “If you want to be unreasonable, well we were—we were just leaving already.” 

Forty minutes later, they’re sitting on a curb with snow cream in hand. It’s fun, moving around the city with a native. Things happen faster. 

“My instincts have become less sharp,” Himuro says, a wrinkle marring his chin. He licks his bowl clean of cream in record time. 

The curb spins around him. “The city ones?” 

“You remembered.” 

“I have those instincts now, myself.” 

Himuro’s beauty mark lifts. “I told you. You were a country boy.” 

Shuuzou smiles back, feeling careless. “Hey… It’s where I learned to fight.” 

Himuro leans against him. “You do it well.” He yawns hugely, fakely, and pats a hand over his mouth. “I want more cream!” 

“Shit, go to sleep.” 

“Yes, sir,” Himuro mocks him. “But you’ll have to tuck me in.”

“I live in a shitty dorm,” Shuuzou says, unsure of how much of this is playful and how much is real. “Let’s go back to yours.” 

“I can live with that.” Himuro steps into the street, managing to make a drunken amble look purposeful, one of his arms floating up like a bird’s wing. A taxi arrives within a few minutes, and Himuro slips in first, beckoning his arm to Shuuzou. Not closing the door until he’s safely inside. 

That answers one question. 

On the way there, Shuuzou keeps thinking about how to make his move. He jiggles his leg in the taxi ride, watching the tall skyline recede as they come to Himuro’s apartment, smack in the middle of J-town. Himuro’s parents pay for it. He’s used to making the first mov, on more girls than guys, but he has a little experience with the latter. Himuro’s leg bumps against his, quieting his jitters, but he stares out the window rather than meeting his gaze. He fishes out the bits of mochi stuck in his teeth. 

He doesn’t have to worry, because Himuro kisses him as soon as they’re inside the door. It’s a strained mess of tongues and groans, Himuro’s arm around his neck, his leg between Himuro’s tight thighs, both of them panting and desperate for it. After so long. They’d met in the aftermath of a fight, and Shuuzou’s cheek will soon be sporting a bruise this time, as well. 

“Sorry to be crude, but it’s not your first time?” 

Shuuzou blinks. “No.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to be drunk for it,” Himuro says, apologetically. 

“I’m not drunk,” Shuuzou says, and it’s only half a lie. Sober, and he might not have the courage to continue kissing someone so pretty. The room isn’t spinning, just blurry in his peripheral vision. 

He has the old cliche—condom in his wallet, lube packets. He goes to other people’s homes infrequently, but he likes to be prepared for the possibility. He’s in luck, though, because Himuro has an impressive stock. 

Their foreplay has been happening all night. Shuuzou helps Himuro prepare himself in a slick rush of silent communication and drunk wobbling, one of his fingers nestled alongside two of Himuro’s. Pressed tightly together, feeling the same clench and relaxation, the same heat. Himuro says he’s ready, spreading his legs. Their fingers slip out. 

Shuuzou slicks himself and presses forward slowly, a slow movement of care and focus that’s more arousing to see than feel. He slides into him in measured centimeters. He can feel Himuro breathing out rhythmically, his muscles seizing and relaxing as his body opens up. Opens up just for him—Shuuzou’s thankful to be tipsy, as his sexual experience hasn’t gotten him to last very long while sober. Given that the person is Himuro, he thinks he’d probably come almost instantly if it weren’t for the slow fire in his veins, controlling his arousal, pulling it back from the inevitable edge. 

He slides his hand down Himuro’s leg to his calf, the soft hairs curling under his palm. He starts to press it back but feels no give behind his gesture. 

“Basketball doesn’t do wonders for flexibility,” Himuro says, breathless and impressively coherent. But his neck is flushed. “I would if I could.”

Shuuzou doesn’t have that coherency right now. His legs and arms are tense with exertion, and when he’s like this, his mind runs far behind his body. Playing catch-up. He notices Himuro starting to turn onto his side, feels the grooves around his dick shifting, wetness sliding around. 

“Now lift my leg.” 

Shuuzou does as he says, lifting Himuro’s upper leg until it’s bent at the knee. Now he can thrust in straight, and he does, again and again. He feels different this way, another perfect angle inside. Himuro starts to make a noise, but it stutters in his throat. 

“Don’t hold back,” Shuuzou says, craning his neck to speak into his ear. “You sound so hot.” 

“I wouldn’t if I could,” Himuro says. His ears flush. 

The sex is quieter than usual, for Shuuzou. But he doesn’t mind; he doesn’t need the extra stimulation of noise. When it comes down to it, Himuro is enough; his soft hair, his perfect face, the heat showing over his chest. It’s hard to face him directly, with the kinds of expressions playing over Himuro’s face: Pleasure. Surprise. Drive. Want. But Shuuzou can’t bury his face in his neck forever, no matter how much he likes to bite him there; he looks up after a particularly rough thrust to see Himuro’s eyes almost closed, rolling back to show their pearls. He feels Himuro’s hand working between their bodies. 

“I’m going to come,” Himuro says, his voice gone high, tight. 

“Wait for me,” Shuuzou says, an incredible pressure building in his head. “Wait, Tatsuya, I’m almost there—” 

Himuro takes his hand away from himself, and he shakes but doesn’t come. Shuuzou looks at the deep blush shading Himuro’s chest and neck and tucks his face into his throat, sucking and licking at the smooth skin. He wants to make him impossibly more flushed, deepen every part of his skin. 

“Okay, I’m—” and that’s all the warning Shuuzou can give. 

He buries himself inside Himuro and comes deep, his senses intensifying when he feels Himuro seize around him and start to come too. His own voice cracks on a moan, and he kisses the noise into Himuro’s mouth, sharing the volume between them. 

When he can, he pushes himself to his elbows to avoid crushing Himuro. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks at Shuuzou like his world is spinning too. It’s probably the alcohol, but Shuuzou holds him around the waist and rolls to the side, maintaining eye contact most of the way. It’s another thing that lets him know he’s still working the drinks out of his system; the courage to have someone else close, and look at them without shying away. 

They lay there silently for a while before Himuro rises to wash up, his body a pale shadow in the low light. He brings a hot, damp washcloth back for Shuuzou. 

“You’re staying,” Himuro says sleepily, his giant yawn perfectly real this time. 

Shuuzou wouldn’t disagree if he could. 

In the bare morning, his instincts wake him with the rising of the sun. He gets up to use the bathroom, and he sees the familiar skyline through the high window as he stands and releases his bladder. 

He returns to bed, seeing Himuro still asleep, hoping he’s home for the first time again.


End file.
